Archive for
July, 2011

My trip to Ireland this week, was quite the adventure. Not least of which was the fact that I was still detoxing from my weeklong party in Pamplona, Spain. So out with the sangria, and in with the Guinness. Now, new sources of alcohol wouldn’t be the only thing I had to adjust to coming to Ireland. Driving in Ireland is an experience as well, as they like many of the former English-colonies around the world, drive on the left.

Having had the opportunity to spend a few months driving on the left while Rachel and I were living in Japan, I did have some experience with it. Not that it made it any easier trying to reverse just about every core driving instinct it I had once again. But 34% of the world’s population actually drives on the left side. So for those looking to visit one of the 64 left-lane driving countries of the world, here is a primer for you.

First: It is more disorienting than you think.

Actually driving in a different lane is the easy part. There are signs all over the rental car reminding you. The tough part is doing so from the passenger seat. For one, when driving down the road in the States you normally align yourself with the left side of the lane you are in. So, in this vehicle setup that would mean you’ve put your passenger off the side of the road. At least once every 30 minutes Rachel would have to let alert me to the fact that I was drifting to the other side of my lane.

Additionally, turning is all out of whack. Typically, you make very tight left turns (since you are adjacent to your own left tires) and swing wide right to avoid clipping your mirrors. Again when that is reversed, so is this process. Making a few initial left turns trying to get out of the rental car parking lot (using my default approach) I nearly put Rachel into a parking sign, a curb and a security fence. One of the cousins in our group even popped the tires on the left side of his rental by drifting too close to a curb driving around town. Yah, it’s hard to undo a lifetime of habits.

Even as a passenger, it feels *very* weird to be sitting in the driver seat and not have any control over where the car is going. Looking in the rear view mirror and seeing what you expect to be the *driver* of the car behind sound asleep is more than a little disconcerting. One day, my Uncle Tommy pulled up in a taxi and I literally thought he was driving the damn thing till I remembered we were in Ireland. Crazy.

And throw in trying to switch gears with your left hand, …forget about it. Yah, so while what you are doing with your feet is normal (assuming you can drive a manual transmission vehicle), what you are doing with your hands is *backwards*. Yep, true statement. Most of my first day driving in Ireland was spent turning on windshield wipers when I wanted to use my turn signal, and punching my right hand into the door (now next to me) while grasping for the stick shift (which was now on my other side).

Oh, and I won’t even broach the subject of trying to parallel park with your side view mirrors all reversed, or trying back up anywhere. It makes my head hurt thinking about it.

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Second: The rules of the road are reversed as well.

This isn’t as challenging as the first part, but this is the part that can get you killed faster than anything. Knowing who has right of way, and how to navigate those roundabouts ahead of you, while still doing 40 mph, is like walking a tight rope in a circus. Falter for a moment and it all comes crashing down.

For starters, when you are on the intestate you pass on the right. Slower traffic stays on the left. Cars will merge in from your left as well. People on your left have right of way at intersections. However, most of the time you won’t have a true intersection, you’ll reach what is called a roundabout.

Roundabouts are the European version of the 4 way stop, except no one has to stop if the lane is clear. You just gotta know when it’s your turn and who has the priority. Despite what one would assume, roundabouts are *not* every other car like you would see at a 4 way stop. In Germany cars entering on your left *always* have right of way. You can wait at the roundabout all day for a break in the cars coming from your left, and no one has to let you in. That’s just the way it is.

The cool thing, though, is once you are in the roundabout, you don’t have to let anyone in either. You can expect to speed onto whatever exit you choose. Of course, in Ireland it is people coming from the right that have the priority. In the larger roundabouts there are actually inner and outer lanes of the roundabout to navigate depending on where you came from and where you expect to exit. The roundabouts in London were famously spoofed in National Lampoon’s European Vacation. That scene still makes me chuckle, “Kids, …Big Ben, Parliament” 🙂

Check out this animated graphic on how to properly navigate a roundabout in Ireland. Ready to give up yet?

Now, rules of the road aren’t just limited to cars. When walking across intersections you have to remember to look *right* first when crossing the street. There are even signs on the street themselves reminding you of this. Still, as much as I made an effort, it was almost impossible to not want to look left when stepping off the curb. In general, Rachel and I just made up for it by looking every *possible* direction (including up and down) before darting across traffic. Still it was very easy to accidently step out in front of a bus in left-lane countries, and many Americans do exactly that each year.

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Third, and finally; No insurance will cover you driving in one of these countries.

You will *have* to buy the supplemental. Yes, despite whatever international coverage you have, nobody covers driving in rental car in a country that drives on the left. For all of the reasons mentioned above, it is just too much of a gamble.

I consider myself a fairly competent driver, with a good bit of international driving experience, and I still count it as a small miracle that I made it out of Ireland without so much as a ding on my rental car. The hardest part of the drive was actually driving to drop off the car at the end of the trip. We hit rush-hour in Dublin, and navigating through the maze of merging tour buses, lane-splitting bicycles and scurrying pedestrians was a master’s degree crash course in driving. Now at least Dublin isn’t filled with chaotic drivers, like, let’s say, driving in Korea. But it is a large city, and any large city can be tough to drive in.

I recall one of our fellow trainers renting a car with us in Yokosuka, Japan (which is also on the left). She rented the car, drove it off the lot, made one turn, crashed into a stop sign, made the next turn back into the parking lot and returned the car. No kidding.

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With the aforementioned advice in mind, I’m sure you have reservations about attempting to drive in a left lane country. If so, …good. This is a healthy response. It’s the complacent drivers who don’t consider the consequences who get into the most trouble. Dealing with the stress of driving in a new town, with a transposed-stick shift, and dealing with reverse traffic laws is a recipe for disaster. Still, *most* of the time, you can pull it off. It’s like rubbing your stomach and patting your head, sure, but its *doable*.

Where things go south, is when you are confronted with a split second decision such as a sudden merge in traffic (did I mention the reversed blind spots?), or a soon-to-be-missed exit, or a high speed intersection. In the nanosecond you have to make a judgment call about driving, stress causes you to revert to muscle memory and what *feels* right. That is where you fail.

On our way into Enniscrone, Ireland after flying into Dublin, we ended up spending a few hours on some pretty rural roads. It was dark and rainy, and an Irish *rural* road is basically two lanes squished into 1.5 lanes. If another car comes the opposite way, you both have to lean out onto the shoulders to pass, hoping you don’t clip side mirrors. In our drive there was two or three such instances when a car coming my way would surprise me over a hill and I quickly had to make room. I tell ya, fighting the instinct to not pull the car *right* to make way for the oncoming vehicle was physically difficult.

You shouldn’t really have to *think* about how to drive. Your focus should be on interpreting traffic patterns around you, as well as identifying hazards and decision points ahead of you. If 30% of your brain is subjugated to sorting out what to do with your car, or even how to drive your car, the distraction can be detrimental. I compare it a lot to driving while texting. Yah, you think you’ve got it all covered, till, well, …you don’t.

Oh, and be careful, there are plenty more road hazards to deal with in Ireland than just oncoming traffic. But, hey, it’s Ireland.

But for those who willing to try it, the country of Ireland is an amazing place to see by car. The whole island is only 3.5 hours coast to coast, and there is a millennia of culture and things to see and experience in between. And, many of the coolest, and most remote, places are only reachable by car.

Head the warnings I’ve mentioned here and focus on following the driving patterns of the cars around you, and you should be fine. So whether it be Ireland, or England, or Australia, or even Japan don’t let the roads scare you off from making the most of a site seeing adventure and experiencing life, …life in the left lane.

Having survived the running of the bulls (video) last week, it was now time to make my way to western Ireland for a 40+ person family reunion. My journey there would take me through 3 countries and 5 cities, inside of 20 hours. My own amazing race. Join me this week for a tour of the Emerald Island, and a crash course (pun intended) in driving on the left side of the road. This week’s blog o’blarney.

I’m standing on the streets of Pamplona wearing white pants and a red sash. The firing rocket went off a few moments ago and already I can feel an ominous vibration come up through the ground. The tension of the Mozos (“cowboys”) around me is palatable. Something terrible and incredible is coming our way.

At the end of the street there is a tremendous roar as a mob of runners bank the corner down the road from me. A solid wave of densely crowded sprinters at the front, …cresting like a tidal wave, surging past and over each other as various runners trip, fall and are swallowed up by the swarm. The look in their face is that of abject horror. Images of New Yorkers escaping billowing clouds of soot and crashing debris flash in my head.

My colleague Mark is behind me, bellowing out instructions “Not, yet, …no, not yet, wait for the cameras to move, …wait for the signal!”

Timing is everything here. Let the initial horde of runners blast past. Then wait for the multitude of cameras perched in the balconies far above to start sweeping towards you. Only then is it time to explode, to have a chance to run with them, to experience the spirit of San Fermín.

Tension builds in my blood until I can hear my own heart pounding in my ears. I brace against the wooden corral shoots as the initial wall of humanity smashes into us, …foreheads, faces, legs colliding. Bodies whipped to the cobblestone streets with slapping impact.

These were the trigger happy “rocket-runners” we were warned about. Mozos who took off as soon as the rockets fired, too far ahead of the herd to really be in harms way. However, their frayed nerves caused a stampede of fight or flight responses in everyone they passed. Clearly, everyone in this flood chose the latter.

The real action was still a few more life-dangling seconds into our future.

The first surge past us, we watched those cameras, those precious cameras in the sky, fixated on them like condemned inmates on a clock…”Damn it …do something already!”

And then there it was. A thousand lenses began to move in unison, …slowly tracing up the streets down below us like laser beams.

…Oh …My …God.

There again was Mark in my ear “…OK, OK!!!

“…3, …2, …1“

And in that moment of pure exhilaration, or terror, I grasped for a singular thought, “….how the hell did I end up here?”

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“So, running with the bulls in Pamplona, eh?”

As my friend Mark made the suggestion to me, I sat back in my chair. I took a moment to gauge how serious he was before responding. I’ve done my fair share of adrenaline activities in my life, but most of the time I was an instigating factor in them. Honestly, it was a bit of a surprise to be approached with the possibility of a near-death experience by someone else for once.

Listening to Mark layout the details over lunch, one thing was clear. He was very serious about this. And he had been serious about it for years. Planning, doing the research, making local contacts, …determining the feasibility of it all. As he presented me his plan, I began to believe in his fortitude about not only truly pulling this off, but doing it *this* year. He had even already convinced some other guys to join him on this kamikaze pilgrimage.

It was all mapped out in front of me. Where we would stay, who our local guide would be, how we would prepare for the run, and how we would *survive* the run.

Noodling it around in my head, I must admit it was an attractive offer. The mythical Running of the Bulls. That would be a great feather in my adventure cap. All the work had been done, I just had to sign up. I need only don the white shirt with the red waistband and handkerchief, …and then run for my ever-lovin’ life.

Considering my propensity for all errands foolish and dangerous, I was actually a bit surprised that it had never occurred to me before. Hmm, I guess the idea actually had come to me, but I assumed it was a locals only thing. I couldn’t imagine they’d be OK with Americans showing up and playing the part of conquistador and all. Well, turns out, they don’t mind.

Bulls are equal opportunity, they’ll gore anyone.

Taking a look at the details more closely, I realized how little I actually knew about this event. Turns out there is not just 1 run, but 8. One for each day of the week plus long Festival of San Fermín. The run, which itself is called “El Encierro” (or “the enclosing”), covers a half-mile course through narrow cobblestone streets and alleys, and ends in the great stadium of the Plaza del Toros (the Spanish bullring).

The running of the bulls in Pamplona had, for hundreds of years, actually been a locals only thing. But then in 1926, beloved American author Ernest Hemingway wrote about the festival in his famous book The Sun Also Rises (soon to be the scourge of high school English students everywhere), and the secret was released to the Western world.

The origin of the run is practical: when bulls had reached the proper age and physique to fight in the Pamplona bull fighting arena, the Plaza del Toros, the breeders used the streets of Pamplona to transport their prized bulls from the fields to the bullring. In the same afternoon, all six of the bulls were expected to die by the sword of the matador.

It is still unclear as to what compelled these young pioneers of El Encierro to risk their lives and actually run with the bulls during this process, but they did. As an old man of Pamplona told me “a young man cannot resist the magic of beauty and danger.”

Sounds about right.

And so, for over 800 years, men have chosen to run with the bulls.

The real secret to the running with the bulls is this, ..it is impossible. An adult male bull can outrun even an Olympic sprinter, so there is *no* way to stay out in front of them. At best you hope to run alongside them for four or five seconds. Your real goal is try and cross their path once, and to make it all the way into the bull arena with them without falling. For the moment the last steer (the larger castrated bulls that take up the rear, guiding the younger bulls) enters the arena they close and lock the gate. You either made it in or you didn’t.

Once in the arena you have your chance to do a victory lap in front of several thousand people. Then one by one, they let the bulls back in (who had run clear through to the other side), and you play keep away as long as you can. The game ends when you either scurry up and over one of the red massive wooden protective walls, or are carried off.

Well, certainly intrigued, I took the offer home to the boss, and, amazingly, …she signed off on it. She wasn’t going to go with me, or have anything to do with it, but she knows me well enough to know that as reckless as I can be, I always manage to bring myself home in one piece. I’ve climbed into shark cages, climbed onto mountains, climbed into boxing rings, and climbed off of bridges, …and here I still am.

And just like that, three months later, there I was. On the streets of Pamplona with Mark, his friends Bill and Shawn, and their wives. I had even played the Pamplona iPhone game, “Angry Bulls” on the flight over. Except in this game you played the part of the bull. Hilarious, …I think.

We had already partied through 2 days, of what I must describe as the biggest street party I’ve ever seen, Mardi Gras included. And talk about the world’s biggest edition of Where’s Waldo?, try keeping up with your friends in this group, wearing your red and white PJs. Here is the view outside our apartment at 1pm, and here it is again at 4am. Also, here is a video of the bar *directly* below our room at 4:30am. Yah, the party never stopped, and you can forget about sleeping.

And what a fun, joyful and peaceful group they all were. I didn’t see any violence, which was saying something considering the levels of intoxication about. I was told this was due to all of the men’s “bloodlust” being satiated through the daily bull run and matador fights. They had no hostility left. Crazy, eh?

We had our own Hawaiian Luau, and even attended a bull fight. Which was fascinating and horrible all at the same time (the bull fight, not the Luau, ..though that was entertaining). Can’t say I stomached the bull fighting all too well, but I appreciated the nobility of it, and commend the Spanish for sticking to their guns (or sabers rather), and continuing their tradition, even though there is heavy international pressure to ban it. Plus a Matador got gored (video not for the faint of heart) right in front of me, so sometimes the bulls do win.

On the day before our scheduled run we met with our survival guide “Buffalo Bill” (center). He was part of the group The Pamplona Posse, and had done dozens of runs. With him we walked the 857 meters of the street course and hung on every word and piece of advice he offered.

Combine 100,000 people, enough sangria to float an ocean liner, mix in 48 charging bulls for flavor and you have the 9 day Fiesta de San Fermin, otherwise known as the Running of the Bulls. Join me this week as I head to Pamplona, Spain to take part in a 800 year old tradition of culture, courage and just plain lunacy. All of this and more in this week’s blog, …toro, toro!

My journey across Northern Italy continues this week as I make my way from the Medical Center in Vicenza to visit in on the sites in Livorno, the Airbase at Aviano and even the nearby civilian Italian hospital at St Bortolo, who also tend to treat American Soldiers from time to time. Checking out a map of my team’s journey, you can definitely see why I opted for the unlimited miles plan on my car rental.

The 9 hour round trip voyage out to Livorno was of particular interest because it allowed me swing past Pisa on the way back. Now having seen it, I must say, Pisa was absolutely gorgeous.

I was expecting a leaning tower sure, but the thing looked brand new. Sparkling stone throughout. Obvious imperfections aside, it was a thoroughly remarkable piece of architecture. Plus the grass lawn surrounding it was, ..well, spectacular. The city of Pisa itself, though by the water, looks kinda arid. It is covered with scraggly trees, thinning bushes and rocky hillsides. Reminds me a bit of Nagshead, NC.

However, coming into the platza that held the Tower, and the adjoining Duomo di Pisa Church, I found a lawn that Pebble Beach would have envied. The thing was absolutely meticulous, not a blade of grass out of order. The grounds maintenance work must keep half the city employed. I know it’s odd to see a world renowned architectural structure and to gush over the grass instead. But seriously, you have to see this thing. Coming from the dry and dusty fields in the surrounding areas to this!

And clearly the residents of Pisa enjoyed it as well, as there were people spread all over it playing soccer, having picnics and lying out. The best part for me was seeing all the tourists trying to get posed pictures to look as though they were trying to push the tower back up. Seriously hundreds of them everywhere all lined up with outstretched arms. The effect was pretty cool though, if the photo is done right. There is even a website dedicated to it.

Still seeing dozens attempt it at once was funny. From the distance it looked like a yard full of people practicing Tai Chi. Very humorous. Reminded me of being in front of the Louvre and seeing everyone there trying to appear like they were leaning their elbow on top of the glass pyramid. Ah, yes, everyone going for the same completely un-unique unique photo …so American.

Two other items of note from our trip through the Livorno area were the unique trees and flowers we passed along the way. As I said before, the area is rather arid in a beach-town kind of way, so it struck me as odd to see so many full bodied trees off near the main road through town, in a straight line no less. Truly odd that on one side of the street you would have a tumbleweed and on the other you have a row of bushy trees that Savanna, GA would be proud of. Well, turns out, this is no accident.

Story goes that these trees were planted by the Romans so they could march to and from Rome in the shade. Taking a look at them, it seems they have accomplished this purpose perfectly. Wow, leave it to the Romans to think so far ahead that they brought tree saplings with them to preserve the road. How is that for an ominous sign? You live in a neighboring city-state and your recent conquerors not only show up to pillage and plunder, but they make a road, including landscaping, to mark the route back to you. That’s like guests showing up at your door with suitcases. Get comfy, it’s gonna be a while.

The other very cool thing I liked about the northwestern coast of Italy, was the endless fields of sunflowers I saw. Just as far as the eye could see. Now I’d seen the Keukenoff festival in Holland, and it’s horizon of tulips, and I’ve driven through France and see the endless vistas of mustard seed, but these sunflowers take the cake. Just gorgeous. And the coolest thing is that they all faced the same way. Makes sense as they face the sun, but driving by it kind of reminded me of looking out across an auditorium, staring out at thousands of faces. For a moment there I felt myself looking for my speech, ha ha.

Flower gazing complete, we made our 4 hour trip back to Vicenza to formally close our or business there and say our goodbyes. That wasn’t without incident either, however. If you are wondering if a giant glass bottle of water left in the backseat of the car can *explode* if left in direct light for too long, it most certainly *can*.

Yah, regular water is OK, but sparkling, or gassed water, left under direct sun will become an instant IED. Yep, all over the back of my rental car. I was pulling glass shards out of the arm rests in the *front* seat. Wow, …just wow.

Now, outside the phenomenal Vicenza Health Center which I detailed in my blog last week, the Vicenza US Army Garrison’s main claim to fame is that it is host to the 173rd Airborne Infantry. World renown as some of the toughest SOB door-kickers you’ll find east of Ft Bragg’s 82nd Airborne Division. These guys take all the point-of-the-spear toughness that comes with a normal infantry division and combine than with the type of mentality that is OK with just being dropped out of the sky to do the job.

The “Sky Soldiers” they are called, and for good reason. Airborne school is no joke, and only the best and brightest get pulled for dream team brigades like the 173rd. Their exploits are legendary, combing through their article on Wikipedia reminds of watching the film series Band of Brothers. Check out the 173rd’s involvement in the Battle of Wanat. You can’t make stuff like that up. You remember reading about that guy who won the Medal of Honor last year, a Staff Sergeant Salvatore Giunta. First living recipient of the Medal of Honor in over 50 years. Yep, he was 173rd.

And, as powerfully captured in the short film Restrepo, SSG Giunta was just one of the boys. He clearly started it could have been anyone in the 173rd who earned that medal. If you have a few minutes to spare I ask you, no, I implore you, take the time to watch Restrepo. The link provided here is a 14 minute interview with the SSG Giunta. Watch it, and see first hand what these boys went through in Iraq. You will simply gasp out loud at the footage they captured.

I was actually honored this week with the chance to work out alongside the 173rd, albeit not intentionally. Knowing I would be in Vicenza a full week, one of the things I was looking forward to was hitting the base gym and maybe going for a run along the canals by our hotel. As it happened I was able to do both. The gym on base was beautiful, equipped with a gorgeous full sized running track and even an outdoor pool (with retractable roof). Running through Vicenza was beautiful too. Who wouldn’t complain about having this scenery on your jog? The gym, however, was a bit of a surprise. You see, what I hadn’t counted on was that all those bad-ass 173rd guys would be in the gym too. And wow, talk about testosterone.

I saw guys physically slapping each other to ‘encourage’ one more rep out of them. In the back room, there were guys doing deadlift with buckets and chains added on. There were giant ropes, kettle bells and all sorts of instruments of torture.

Easing in as best I could, I soon found a very comfortable rhythm going through my routine to the sound of grunts and weights crashing to the ground all around me. You couldn’t help but get psyched by it. In a burst of machismo (as misguided as it was), I even asked one of the 173rds for a spot. I bench press well over my body weight, so I wasn’t too embarrassed. Funny though, when I told him I was shooting “4 or 5 reps,” he laughed and said “…No, I’ll tell you how many reps you’ll have.”

…Uh oh.

Yah, he was clearly not letting me get away with a good “college try.” (What does that phrase mean anyhow, we were lazy as hell in college. A true college try meant sleep in late, give a half-hearted go and hit a kegger).

Ya, so collegiate efforts aside, Mr Sir-Yes-Sir Sky Solider did not let me put the bar back on the stand till *he* was sure I didn’t have anything left in me. I’m pretty sure my comments about “Mommy, I’ve been a good boy” sealed the deal to him that I was through, though. 😉

My arms are toast. So, I’ll be typing up my blogs looking like a T-Rex for the next week. But compared with the chance to drop sweat in the same gym as those guys, …worth it.

As it happened one of the doctors, Steve, who flew down with me to Vicenza served as the 173rd’s Brigade Surgeon for 2 years. The title “Brigade Surgeon” means he was their most senior Doc. He deployed with them, served with them and did his damndest to stitch them back together every night. Every injured or deceased solider from the 173rd passed through my colleague’s care while he was downrange with them. An awesome responsibility to be entrusted with, and a heartbreaking task at times.

I joined Steve as he revisited the 173rd HQ in Vicenza and it was clearly a trip down memory lane. He got a hero’s greeting from everyone he ran into, and one-by-one more guys started showing up as word of Steve’s surprise arrival spread down the hallway. I was happy for him, and he looked like a kid in a candy store seeing his old team again. Steve’s current duties take him away from that path these days, but it was clear to him he wasn’t completely sold on giving it up.

On our way out however, things took a more somber turn.

The 173rd has a special room reserved to honor all of those soldiers who never made it back. They call it the Hall of Remembrance. Inside was a photo of every solider lost, placed in rows and columns, in chronological order. Steve stopped short as he passed it, and I could tell instantly he was weighing whether to go in or not. He did.

So, solemnly, we followed Steve in and watched as he gravitated towards the column of soldiers that were lost during his tenure.

One by one, Steve laid his hand on each picture and recounted for me in vivid detail how he “had lost that guy.” He recalled rolling one guy over in a pool of blood and just seeing the kid’s eyes roll back. He remembered the smell of decay. He remembered one soldier who was brought in specifically because he was the son of a senior guy in the division. So he could be protected. He was killed on his first day.

Seeing Steve reach from name to name reminded me of being a young child and seeing my dad at the Vietnam memorial. Making pencil etchings with wax paper. My dad’s silence then was deafening. His gaze became a thousand yard stare, looking ahead but not seeing. His mind was in another place, several lifetimes before.

Today I saw that same look in my friend’s eyes. You could tell a lot of things had just come on him all at once. Leaving the building, I could tell Steve was awash in some painful times. The look of pain etched in face was palatable. Late night phone calls, becoming that voice on the line no one wants to hear. I didn’t know what to say to Steve, and at the risk of sounding disingenuous, I said nothing.

As a civilian I can’t pretend to know or have any clue how that must feel for him. And leaving Vicenza, I couldn’t help but feel an overwhelming debt of gratitude to my colleague for the service he provided for his country, and still does, so that I don’t ever have to know how that feels.

America is a safer place knowing the Sky Soldiers of the 173rd are on watch, and because colleagues, like my friend Steve, have stepped forward on my behalf.

This Land is free because of the Brave.

Thanks guys.

Tell next week friends, where I’ll be coming to you live from Spain. It’s time for the annual running of the bulls in Pamplona, and guess who will be front row and center for all the cattle rampaging action?

With business done in Vicenza, Italy this week I move on to Camp Darby, which is on the outskirts of Pisa. Along the way I manage to explode an IED inside my rental car and get to work out with some of the toughest soldiers who’ll ever fall out of the sky, the ‘Sky Soldiers’ of 173rd Airborne Infantry Brigade. This week’s blog, …Hooah!

Ron works very hard on the blog every week and he is sad that I don’t contribute more to it. So he wanted me to write about me. While Ron writes about all the things that we do together, I put together the pictures of everything we do together. This is a lot, as you can tell by his blog. So I will write about what I am doing on the weekends that we are not jet setting or going to German events like Fasching parties, Wine Tasting and going to flea markets.

I do Shutterfly. Shutterfly, for those who don’t know what it is, is a website that you can go to, load your pictures, then make a scrap book out of it. First, I have to sort through the 8 billion pictures that Ron takes of everything. There are easily 10 pictures of everything from 10 different angles that always include something else cool from the place we have been. So I have to go through and figure out which ones are keep worthy. This often takes about 10 pass through of the pictures to sort out the best ones. Once I have figured that out, I load them onto Shutterfly and then have to figure out some cool layout for them.

To make one book takes me about 2 or 3 weeks. So far I have made one of our four trips to Garmisch (in southern Germany), and our Holland trips to the Keukenhof and Amsterdam. I am now working on Oslo, Kos and the Rhine River. I am so obsessed about this now, since I realized that we have been on amazing trips together and only have the pictures on the computer, which no one wants to sit through watching. So the Shutterfly book is a quick way to look through our pictures.

Perfect for coffee tables. It is great to look back and see these great memories. I may go back and do Cambodia, Thailand, Italy, Japan and Korea. But in truth, Ron and I were slightly pudgy in those pictures so I am less motivated to go through them.

Anyway, that is all I have to say about that. I will let Ron finish his writing and let him be excited that I have contributed. I am really glad that Ron documents all of the great things that we do. And I hope you guys enjoy reading it. Even if you are just skimming ;).

Venice, Italy and its suburbs are host to many of the most gorgeous sites in the world. It is also host to a US Army Garrison, and an Army Health Center. This week I journey down to the city of Vicenza on business, and pay my first site visit to northern Italy. Along the way I learn the dangers of skipping tolls, and check out a world class medical clinic. All of this and Italian fashion tips in this week’s blog. Oh, and hold the phone, we have an article from Rachel as well! She shares with us the amazing wonder that is Shutterfly.

With my visit to SHAPE Army Health Clinic complete last week, all that was left was for me to lay eyes on Landstuhl Regional Medical Center’s three outpost clinics in Northern Italy, and meet with their staff. And while the trip to Belgium was drivable (8 hours roundtrip), a visit down to Italy was at least 12 hours each way. With modern communication technology being what it is, you may wonder …why bother?

Email, web-cams and the good ‘ol fashion phone (or “telephonic” communication as I’ve heard it referred to, hilarious) bridge those gaps with relative ease these days. This is all true, sure, but there is just no replacing the value of a face to face conversation and the ability to make judgments for yourself. There are a thousand and one details you’ll notice seeing a situation in person. Yes, it is a lot of work to travel across two countries for a walk through, but this is a major reason why I do it. As a manager it is important for employees to see that you are willing to go through that trouble. It lets them know they are *worth* the effort.

Having the chance to talk to an employee face to face and listen earnestly to their assessment builds a critical bond. Having the opportunity to shake their hand, look them square in the eyes and say ‘Thank You’ for their hard work matters. The employee sees you care, and the employee’s colleagues see that management values them. This in-turn raises the stock of your staff in their office. It’s a win all around. Management 101, it’s a shame more leaders don’t see that value of it.

So, off I went to Vicenza, Italy. Fortunately, the group I was going with saw the value in flying versus the ½ day drive it would take to get down there, and with gas prices being what they are we would certainly save money. Now with the skyrocketing airfare (pun intended) prices Stateside there would be little comparison, but in Europe there are *true* discount airlines. Forget Southwest Airlines, or TED where you can travel for a few hundred bucks, here in Europe we have something even better …Ryan Air.

Check out my side article on Ryan Air for my 2 euro cents on the pros and cons of discount airlines. $50 Ryan Air plane tickets purchased, the flight down to Venice was gorgeous. We flew through over the Alps with its mysterious mountain lakes, and down across the fields of Italy. Seeing the rivers begin to form into canals was very neat, check out my gallery of images from the flight. We landed in Marco Polo airport, which for some reason I found hilarious. I would ask someone what airport we were in and blurt out “POLO” the moment they began to say “Marco.” Hours of entertainment I assure you.

Marco, “…POLO”, airport was right outside Venice, but alas, our current business took us about 45 minutes in the other direction, so Venice would have to wait. The Army base we were visiting today was in Vicenza, another canal-laden, and equally scenic Italian city. So once I sorted out the rental car situation, off we went. I had brought my German GPS with me, fondly named Helga, to help navigate the roads. But we very quickly determined that, unlike anything else in Italy, the interstate system leading out to Vicenza was brand new, …like a few months old new.

The GPS was no help steering us in the right direction and we took several passes through the same clover leaf interstate intersections. What was worse was that not only did every wrong turn put us 15 minutes in the wrong direction (as there were few places to get off the interstate to flip around), but there were toll booths at every bypass. We began racking up quite the tally as we skated back and forth through these euro-guzzlers. Eventually, we managed to get ourselves sorted out and headed in the right direction.

Unfortunately, I was a little too eager in finally heading the right way on the correct interstate, because I accidentally drove through the speed pass lane of the last toll gate. This wouldn’t have been so bad except for the fact that this particular toll booth required you to pick up a ticket. Having done my fair share of driving on the Jersey Turnpike I know how this story finishes. It ends with you futily pleading your case to a tollbooth operator 20 miles later, only to be charged with the maximum ticket cost anyway.

Well, such was the case here. However, instead of a toll booth operator, I got an automated machine. Unable to get past this toll lane Gestapo, our only option was to drive *backwards* 50 yards out of the tollgate, and then pull off into some tollbooth employee service lane. You want a nice shot of endorphins, try driving backwards on an Italian interstate knowing you waived the coverage on your rental car. Good times.

After that fiasco I parked, and had to try and communicate with one of the Italian booth operators (clearly those working at tollbooths don’t count secondary languages in their skillsets). Eventually the “no biglietto” explanation got through and I was handed a whopping €60 bill. Yah, a $100 tollbooth ticket …in cash.

I tell ya, Italy was not starting off on the right foot.

This ominous prediction was furthered when I went to boot up my computer that night and got this screen. Talking to the IT computer techs at the clinic the next day didn’t go any better. They came out and asked me “So, when was the last time you backed up your files?”

This is the equivalent of a doctor coming out and asking you if you have a family history of cancer. That conversation is never going to end well.

Now, my computer issues wouldn’t have been such a big deal if I weren’t making a presentation for the Command suite and then the *entire* Medical Center the next day. I see some ad-libbing in my future for certain. Well, that’s why I get paid the big euro bucks, or something like that.

Still, life wasn’t all that bad. Vicenza it a gorgeous corner of the world, and the clinic here is world class. It’s less than 2 years old and is state of the art in every regard. Plus, you had to love the little Italian touches like frescos on the wall (created from photographs taken by the clinic’s own staff), the Italian statues greeting you in the lobby, and, oh yes, the espresso machines. Funny, you could even buy a fob which allowed you to buy coffee without the need for coins. Subscription coffee service, …only in Italy.

The nicest thing I saw was the TV web-cam system set up in the mother-baby rooms. With so many soldiers deployed, this set up allowed them to be there virtually for the birth of their child, and to look in on mom and baby whenever they were able. The thought of families being separated during such an important time was heartbreaking, but at least here in the Vicenza Health Center the staff has gone through unprecedented lengths to bridge the distance the best way technology can.

Oh, and did I mention the clinic even presses its own olive oil? Yep, welcome to Italy.

Our first day of clinic tours and staff meetings aside, we were able to actually get out and about a little. My colleagues and I settled down in city-center platza for some mojitos and people watching. Fashion in Italy is fascinating. Men dressed very welll. In fact, it was down right impossible to tell the difference between someone who was Italian, …or gay. Even the US soldiers who came through had picked up much more flare in style than I had ever seen. Smart sunglasses, throwback polo shirts, and even high end loafers. Those who had been here a couple years even sported berets and, gasp, man purses. I can’t say I’d try it, but I must admit that it all kinda worked for them. These guys were sharp. When in Rome I guess, …or when up the street from Rome, ha ha.

Women dressed smartly as well. I guess this was to be expected, but I noticed that women at much older ages dressed up sharply too, and sexy. And this wasn’t your typical mom broke into her teenage daughter’s closet kind of wardrobe, it was all very classy and age appropriate. You just don’t see that much Stateside. Once we get married and have kids, its kinda the norm to start dressing like, well, moms and dads. I guess dad could still go out with a plaid sport vest and white linen pants while mom rocked Dolce Gabbana sunglasses, an LV purse, and full length floral lace skirt split all the way up to high heavens. Good for them for bringing sexy mom’s back.

Well, this is Italy, I doubt they ever left.

So that’s all for this week. Next blog I’ll return with details of my workout with the Sky Soldiers of Europe, the 173rd Airborne Infantry Brigade. All this and an IED explodes in my rental car.